I walked out on my back porch tonight.  My hands were full of stuff I needed to take upstairs–my gym bag, some dirty kitchen towels, a jacket.  I went outside to pluck some withered petunias off a plant and toss them in the yard with my free hand.  The blooms are so beautiful until, suddenly, shriveled-umbilical-cord-looking-things.  And then bumblebees seemed to be humming in a wide arc around my head, and the sound of the creek running so peacefully drifted up from the slight ravine behind the house.  The chickens were there, ten feet away, making their lazy last evening sounds before darkness chased them to roost.  The sun was going down behind my neighbors’ trees, and everything, even my own hand held out in the light, took on a warm peachy glow, and it was just one of those moments. Where time nearly stops.  I heard this snippet on the radio lately.  A man said that if you’re happy in life, great, because, Christian, this is the worst it’s ever going to get.  Like this–this Earth in its splendor–is nothing compared to Heaven.  And I just cannot even comprehend.  But it’s true.

I’ve decided I want a Great American Summer, with baseball games and reading and blackberry picking and cobblers and inner-tubing in the mountains and much lazing.  I think I can manage to pull it off; the key–and no easy feat– will be this:


Do you know how that goes?

The desperate e-mails and the puppy dog eyes and the conniving and bustling (though I love them) friends and relatives?


I’ll only get one Summer 2016, and it needs to be a break, not something I’ll need to recuperate from.